Silence Her

by Douglas Fetterly

  All Lishan wanted was to leave her apartment and not offend him. Anyone, really. “No. The pheromones from last night are mine to keep. I’ve got to go.”

  Outside in the hallway, she thought about her parting words.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered between her teeth. “What the hell. Why do I have to please everyone else? Where’s my truth? I may as well have asked him to marry me.”

  “Marry who?”

  Lishan swiveled to find Erik. “Oh, uh…”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I know he’s still in there. And you probably don’t want him to be. We can talk about it later, if you want to.” The lines on Erik’s face seemed a jumble of emotions.

  Lishan was dumbfounded. How in the world do they always know? How? Sheepishly, she nodded.

  Erik gave her a wink as he walked off toward the stairwell, the barest nuance in his face letting her know he was unsettled.

  Lishan felt a little unsure of herself, absently heading toward the elevator instead of the stairs. Inside, an eternity passed before she pressed the ‘L’ button. How would she have felt if Erik entertained lovers? In the lobby, she proceeded to Erik’s office but hesitated outside his door, not certain whether she should just let it go or not. But the glass windows betrayed her presence. He looked up and beckoned her to come in.

  “Look. I want to say, ‘How could you?’ and ‘I’m happy for you,’ all in the same breath.”

  “Yes, I know.” She hesitated. “Erik. I didn’t sleep with him.”

  “But he stayed the night. Kept to his side of the bed? Look, I’m not at my best.” A haughtiness overtook him. “I should get back to my work.”

  Lishan felt hurt, then angry. The anger won.

  “That pisses me off, Erik.” Her eyes had narrowed fully, the creases in her forehead deep.

  “Yeah, well. Look, Lishan. You can do what you want. Perhaps we should talk later.”

  Lishan heaved a sigh. She thought to bring up the poisoning, but she just didn’t have the energy to deal with anything more from Erik this morning. As she was leaving, a bright, pony-tailed young woman—all of nineteen—brushed past Lishan, calling out “Hey, baby” to Erik.

  This wasn’t the first young woman Lishan had seen treat him as though he were Eros. Probably love-struck students, she always thought. Still, he never seemed to protest. She tucked this one away with the others.

  - - -

  As Rafael showered and prepared to leave, he took a look around Lishan’s apartment. He felt as though he were uncovering secrets, going through her drawers, checking her bookshelves. He had a surfacing feeling of revenge, a score to settle against this female who humiliated him. How could she not fuck me? ran through his mind. Damned tease.

  18

  At a quarter ‘til nine, after a blueberry scone for breakfast and a cup of Mayorga coffee to spur him on, JoJo got off the Camden Line train at College Park, Maryland, then walked the third of a mile to the corner of Paint Branch Parkway and 51st Avenue.

  Morning sunlight drenched the building that was home to the FDA’s CFSAN. As JoJo approached, he couldn’t help but notice the vertical architecture that adorned the array of windows, nearly appearing like prison bars when seen from a distance.

  JoJo once briefly met the worldly architects—Kallmann, McKinnell, & Wood—at an awards luncheon, where he was tempted to broach the subject, but for some reason he allowed tact to overrule his oft-forward nature, letting the bars stand unquestioned.

  JoJo’s doctorate in molecular biology was key in his landing a job as an interdisciplinary scientist. He largely enjoyed his work, though it was difficult at times to answer to a manager—Bill Rafferty—who lacked the appropriate expertise for the job. Word had it that Rafferty was a step-nephew of Jack Conner, though he would never acknowledge it. Nepotism—a potential web of inefficiencies, JoJo thought.

  JoJo felt secure in his life. He had plenty of money stemming from his education, his side job as an entertainer, and a trust fund left by his stepfather. His stepfather had been one of the few adult males who believed in him. But JoJo had often felt marginalized due to his deviations from social norms. He felt his position as a regulatory reviewer for nutrition issues—evaluating nutrient content, labeling, and health claims—would be a perfect opportunity to make a few things right in the world.

  He stopped in the employees’ coffee shop on the way to his office, wary of the supposed nutrition in any of the vending offerings. Samantha, one of his colleagues, caught his attention. She was eating from a brightly colored ceramic bowl filled with cooked spinach, her breakfast stop before duty called.

  “Stop-and-Shop?” he quipped.

  She raised her head, glaring through her smile. “Organic. Homegrown.”

  “Don’t trust the FDA and USDA?” JoJo quipped.

  “Moi? Honey, Johns Hopkins hit the nail. If I may quote: ‘Food and nutrition policies are like sausage. You don't want to see how they’re made.’ You forget, I work here. I think a major multinational biotech firm influenced—overrode, shall we say—my last report. So, no, I’ll grow my own, thank you very much.”

  JoJo nodded. Many of the FDA employees, aware of the oft-sought loopholes exploited by industrial lobbies, were exceedingly careful about their store-bought food. They kept an eye on organic standards and nutrition labeling, pressing to ensure the standards were not watered down. Homegrown was a much-touted subject.

  “I’m with you,” he said, departing without a morsel.

  As JoJo approached his office, the phone rang. It was his boss.

  “Joe, can you stop by my office in the next few?” Rafferty sounded prickly.

  JoJo never did like to be called Joe, which is likely why Rafferty stuck by it.

  As JoJo entered Rafferty’s office, the manager didn’t bother to look up. Rather, he tapped a finger at a letter he held.

  “I’ve read your concerns, unfounded as they appear. But I didn’t want you to think I don’t care.” Rafferty looked up, condescendingly. “Why don’t I read this out loud, so you can hear what it sounds like? See if you can pick out the logic then explain it to me, if you can. I’ll skip the formalities at the top—To Whom, yada yada.”

  JoJo half rolled his eyes, while Rafferty fussed with a few papers on his desk. Taking JoJo’s letter in hand, Rafferty began:

  As I review the stand taken by the FDA—specifically, CFSAN—I cannot fathom the...

  Rafferty stopped and looked up at JoJo. “Skip the literary-speak, Joe. ‘Fathom’ is for Shakespeare. We are a government agency. Try ‘understand’ instead.” He continued.

  As I review the stand taken by the FDA—specifically, CFSAN—I cannot...understand...the allowance of labeling that misleads the consumer. Two cases in point: one is that monosodium glutamate—MSG—can be simply listed as ‘spices.’ MSG causes headaches in many consumers. Two is that producers are allowed to put a ‘zero trans fats’ label on the front of the package, when, in fact, the Principal Display Panel, with its net quantity of contents and ingredients, indicates the presence of hydrogenated oils, a.k.a. trans fats, albeit a small quantity. The loophole is an FDA regulation that allows industry to state zero grams of trans fats if there exists less than 0.5 grams per serving. NIH, in its infinite list of grants and studies on health, found that there is no safe, acceptable amount of these oils to be consumed. Not one gram. Not one tenth of one gram.

  And just when did the FDA decide it could reinvent “zero”? Apparently, the U.S. government, at the undeniable behest of lobbyists—including Conner Foods—has decided to inaugurate a new mathematical concept. Read “The State of Pennsylvania v. Conner Foods, Truth in Labeling,” a lawsuit stemming from CF’s first foray into deceiving the public about trans fats.

  I would like to draw upon quotes from our own FDA documents. One is from a budget file as part of a justification for the fiscal base. It reads, “The single most important factor in ensuring that citizens lead long, healthy lives and minimize the likelihood
of chronic disease is the availability and effective use of science-based nutrition information.”

  Then there’s the following letter, wherein we state unequivocally that no labeling is to be false or misleading. “However, FDA's research has found that with Front of Package labeling, people are less likely to check the Nutrition Facts label on the information panel of foods (usually, the back or side of the package). It is thus essential that both the criteria and symbols used in front-of-package and shelf-labeling systems are nutritionally sound, well-designed to help consumers make informed and healthy food choices, and not false or misleading.”

  I respectfully submit that the FDA is charged with ensuring honesty and truth in the labeling it supports and mandates, and that the transgressions I have mentioned need to be corrected. Additionally, my concern extends to the likelihood that these inequities exist in additional areas and should gain the attention of management without delay.

  Regards,

  Joseph Velázquez

  Interdisciplinary Scientist

  CFSAN

  Rafferty rocked back in his chair, his excess forty-five pounds nearly tipping the scale of balance. He put his two hands together, rotating the thumbs around one another. “Joe. Joseph. JoJo. You’re a good soldier.”

  “I’m not a soldier.”

  “A euphemism.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Rafferty poorly disguised his annoyance. Taking stock of JoJo’s colorful clothing, he continued. “As I said, you’re a good...employee. Since your arrival here, you’ve often made a point of informing management about your views regarding shortcomings within the Agency. Of course, there are some shortcomings. Every government agency has them. Look at the POTUS and..." Rafferty paused. "Forget I said that. I would just like to think we’re better than average. But, Mr. Velázquez, you have pushed the envelope to the point of wasting time—mine and my superior’s time. If you insist, I’ll forward your complaint form and attached letter to our division management, a copy of which will be forwarded to the Inspector General of the Department of Health and Human Services. But I think you should reconsider. I personally like MSG, and every day I consume food that’s laced—loaded—with trans fats. And I’m in good health.”

  JoJo held his teeth tight together, hoping to hold back the laugh that tugged at his face.

  “I’m putting your letter in my ‘hold’ file, giving you a month to think about it. Your review is, coincidentally, due at that time. That is how we consolidate, how we make the best use of time here at the Agency. Now, I have a plate full of important decisions to consider. If you’ll excuse me...”

  19

  Jerry's phone played "Life's Been Good," signaling a new text message. “Jerry? It’s Stella. Have time for a beer?”

  It was the morning after Stella’s session with Lishan. She wanted the $2,500 and perhaps a roll in the sack.

  “Let’s see. It’s just ten. When were you thinking?”

  “Now.”

  Jerry smiled. He knew when Stella was feeling carnal. “I’ll get someone to cover the final pages. Same place?”

  Stella lived three blocks away—the third floor of a Hummelstown brownstone on a relatively quiet side street. It had served as a rendezvous for Stella and her escapades on many occasions. Jerry was likely unaware that he was one of many.

  Jerry liked being on his back—a surrender, of sorts. Besides, being smothered in her bustiness thrilled him.

  Afterward, donning one of two robes she stole from an Embassy Suites, she poured two Sam Adams beers.

  “You do know I’m not supposed to share any of this with you. Client confidentiality,” Stella said, sipping her beer.

  Jerry reached in his pocket and pulled out the envelope with twenty-five crisp hundred-dollar bills in it. He didn’t flinch when Stella counted every bill; he knew the company he kept.

  “But it may have bearing on her employment, especially if she weren’t forthright in her employment process. Did you know she was in juvie? Something about a felony.” Stella leaned back in the couch, feeling quite pleased with herself.

  “Nooo. Really?”

  “She chose not to elaborate, which caught my attention. If she has a record as a felon and didn’t report it on the employment forms…”

  “I get your drift.” Jerry grabbed a handful of pretzels from the ever-present snack tray on the coffee table. Stella enjoyed manipulating her friends and acquaintances into liking her, and, therefore, doing her bidding. Appetizers helped. “I’ve never liked her. She’s a difficult employee.”

  Stella looked at Jerry, thinking of difficult employees. From her many clients, she knew Jerry had often crossed the HR line. But she would never breach the subject with him. He was too valuable an ally, having garnered HR file information for her on more than one occasion. They were complicit in one another’s deceits.

  An hour later, Jerry was back at his desk. Lishan walked past before he had a chance to view her files. He just couldn’t help himself.

  “Lishan. Got a minute?”

  “Of course, Jerry. Anything for you.” The sarcasm hung thick.

  “Were you ever in trouble with the law? Just asking.”

  “Why would you ask?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We always like to know these things about our employees.”

  “You ask everyone this question?”

  Jerry’s face hardened, nervously. “No. Well, yes. I do.”

  “Mind if I ask around, corroborating your story? Nothing wrong with that, is there?” Lishan was getting angry. She knew what had happened. But could she prove it? Unlikely, but she could stir the pot. “I have work to do. Anything else? Perhaps whether I belong to the Communist Party, or the Christian Left?”

  Jerry furrowed his forehead. The Left? he asked himself. “No. No. You’re free to go.”

  At her desk, Lishan called Jerry’s assistant, Marie Elena, to confirm rumors that Jerry and Stella had some form of relationship. Lishan and Marie Elena had become friends over the past year, occasionally sharing war stories about Jerry. Marie Elena said that Jerry had received a call from Stella mid-morning, after which Jerry left for a couple of hours, returning with beer on his breath and a Cheshire cat grin.

  Her next call was to Stella’s office. “Stella, this is Lishan Amir. Jerry Hanson just confided in me that you shared my juvenile hall experience with him. I hope you have a backup line of work. By the way, I won’t be needing anymore of your, shall we say, help.” She hung up.

  Within an hour, the entire newsroom heard “God dammit, Jerry” as his door was shut—more like slammed—by Stella. Jerry looked like a cat caught at 5:00 p.m. in the middle of a Manhattan intersection while Stella drove back and forth, arms flailing, Jerry in her sights.

  The newsroom quieted over those next few minutes as every employee became curious about what the editor had gotten himself into this time. When Stella exited his office, she spied Lishan and made a sudden shift in her direction, coming to within a foot of Lishan.

  Leaning over, her jowls quivering, Stella whispered, “Don’t you ever threaten me. Do you hear me? Ever. And, by the way, I never said a word to Jerry about you. Not a word. Nothing you could prove, anyway.” Her high heels clacked heavily as she headed toward the elevator.

  “Stella Fendwell,” Lishan said in a normal tone. As Stella turned, Lishan continued confidently, “Look up ethics, when you get a chance. And karma while you’re at it. Careful—the elevator is in need of service.”

  Upon reaching the elevator and noticing the impending service notice, Stella haughtily shifted toward the door and took the stairs.

  Lishan looked into Jerry’s office. He was seething, attempting to contain his emotions. In that single second of eye contact, Jerry picked up the handset to his phone. Lishan knew he was calling HR to see if he had any leverage.

  Half an hour later, Lishan’s phone rang. She was being summoned to the HR director’s office. Jerry was nowhere in sight when she arrived.


  “Have a seat, Lishan.” The directive was not unkind, though not friendly. “It has come to my attention that you were once convicted of a felony, yet your personnel forms—that you filled out—state clearly that you never had such a conviction. You do know, don’t you, that falsifying documents of this nature can be grounds for dismissal?”

  Lishan looked at the director, not saying a word as she held his eyes. At fifty, Irish-born Ross O’Brannigan had long since let his health go—his suit jacket unbuttoned to accommodate the additional fifty-some pounds. He became skittish as the silence ensued.

  “Lishan?”

  “Yes, I heard you. I’m simply measuring my next steps, since you’re approaching me with a false accusation.”

  The director’s eyes opened fully. He chose his next words with caution. Attempting to place the blame elsewhere, he began, “According to my sources…”

  “You mean Jerry Hanson.”

  “Yes. That is, no, I can’t tell you.”

  “Reliable character, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Ms. Amir, his character isn’t in question here.”

  “It should be.” Lishan paused, then continued. “Have you confirmed what your sources say? I know the answer, since if you had, you wouldn’t be accusing me now.”

  “I’m not accusing you.”

  “Pardon? Your direct insinuation suggests I have falsified documents. Do you mind if we ask the publisher to hear the rest of this?”

  He took a long breath. “There’s no need, Ms. Amir. She has more important items on her agenda.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll make an appointment.”

  “Ms. Amir, I can assure you…”

  “No, no, no. It will be my pleasure.”

  Attempting to gain control, Ross pressed his pivotal question. “Ms. Amir, were you ever found guilty of a felony? Yes or no.”

  Lishan stood. “You should know that I intend to be fair and honest with you, that I respect the position you hold and your maintenance of a safe workplace. But I feel there’s a petty conspiracy in the wings, of which I’m the intended target. That, I can’t stand for. I believe I should be—in words our country supposedly stands behind—innocent until proven guilty, or has the new administration flipped that one, too? I feel the appropriate next step is for this newspaper to withhold allegations until it finds reasonable proof. Is that fair enough?”